


When Harry met Dracula

by TheMissingMask



Series: Basil lives [2]
Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: AU, Basil lives, Canon Compliant, M/M, Sort Of, and hey why not, it could be, mixing gothic literature themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 08:39:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15945749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMissingMask/pseuds/TheMissingMask
Summary: The scent of blood on the air reached is nose long before the hesitant knock came upon the glass.  Rising languidly, Lord Henry strode over to the French window and opened it.“Harry…” The name was said as barely more than a whisper, and held the tremble of a quiet sob.“Come in, my dear Basil.”





	When Harry met Dracula

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to cheer myself up with an AU, and here it is. I think I might end up doing a series of 'Basil lives' AUs because I ended up drafted a whole bunch (some ridiculous) after finishing the book.
> 
> Anyway, here is a little mashing together of different Gothic literature elements.

Lord Henry watched the tendrils of blue smoke coil about him as he reclined against the crushed velvet cushions. Thoughts drifted through his mind, but he didn’t much care to acknowledge any long enough for it to take shape, let alone be dwelled upon. The entire evening with Lady Narborough had left an unwelcome and lingering bitter sensation that he sought to drown out with the rather good port in his decanter, the third glass of which already sat half drunk on the table beside him. Its rich notes seemed to layer perfectly with the taste of opium-tainted tobacco on his lips. The combination was an excellent remedy against twisting guilt and melancholy. He took another long drag from his cigarette as a new and unpleasant heavy weight seemed to settle within him, accompanying the scent of blood on the air, which reached is nose long before he heard the hesitant knock upon the glass.

Rising languidly, he strode over to the French window and opened it.

“Harry…” The name was said as barely more than a whisper, and held the tremble of a quiet sob.

“Come in, my dear Basil.” Lord Henry said, leading him in with one long arm wrapped about his waist, voice grave and eyes bearing a strangely serious edge.

The flickering light of the fire in the hearth and the sharper blaze of the gas lamps illuminated deep stains of rust and sanguine covering one side of the artist’s clothes, spreading out from a deep and ragged gash in the side of his neck. Lord Henry removed his dressing gown and draped it about the trembling shoulders, unwilling to get blood stains on the magnificent cream velvet cushioning of the sofa he was guiding his friend to sit on.

He then went to the dark mahogany cabinet, not allowing himself to gaze too long upon the deathly pale face of his friend, and withdrew a cut glass decanter of rich red liquid that he mixed in a glass with some of the excellent port.

“Drink this.”

In a state of shock, Basil seemed not to register the meaning of the words spoken to him, but his hand instinctively clasped the glass that was pressed into his hand. Lord Henry helped that hand in bringing the glass to the reddened lips. After one sip, Basil seemed to regain enough awareness to hold the vessel himself and quickly swallowed the rest of the liquid in barely two gulps.

“Good man.” Lord Henry brought the glass away and rose to go and refill it.

“Harry.” Basil whispered, catching the other’s wrist in a fast movement before he could move too far away, “I don’t understand. I-I don’t understand any of it.”

Lord Henry turned back slowly and after looking in pity at his friend for a long moment, knelt down before him. With uncharacteristic care he took both Basil’s hands in his, and looked the other earnestly in the eye.

“Hush, my dear Basil. Trust me, will you? I’ll take care of you.”

“But…why?”

Not answering, Lord Henry stood again with one hand lingering a moment on the artist’s shoulder, and went to pour two glasses from the stored carafe, opting to forego the port altogether. He sipped at his while handing the other to Basil, who began to sip it tentatively, but almost immediately began gulping the drink down the same as the first. It was only when he had finished the entire glass and was licking the residue from his lips that a startled expression overcame him, and Lord Henry’s indifferent gaze met the shocked expression of Basil.

“My God, Harry! Is this blood?!”

Lord Henry rolled his eyes and perched on the arm of one of his chairs, “You were hardly complaining about it a moment ago, nor the other day, for that matter. Oh, don’t look so alarmed, Basil! I haven’t killed anyone. They are no worse the wear for it, I assure you.”

“Why are you giving me blood at all?! Why are _you_ drinking blood?! Wait!” He looked from the glass to his host, “The other day? _That_ was your 'exotic Eastern liquor'?”

“It was my blood that time, but yes.” Lord Henry swirled his drink and sipped it absently.

“Why in God’s name would you give me _your_ blood to drink?!”

“Because you said you were going to confront Dorian, against my recommendations, of course, and I rather expected how he might respond.” Lord Henry placed his glass on the table and lit another cigarette.

“You knew he was going to kill me?”

“I thought he might.”

“How…sad.” Basil muttered, “I hadn’t meant to…but he did kill me, didn’t he?”

Lord Henry nodded.

“And I’m alive because of your blood?” Basil brought a hand to his forehead, shutting his eyes against his evident disbelief.

“Not alive, exactly, I don’t believe, but not dead in the least. But, yes, it is my blood that caused that.”

“And, are you also dead but not dead?” Basil ran a hand through his hair, “By God, do you have any idea how absurd this all sounds, Harry?”

“Indeed.” Lord Henry shrugged, “But, I must confess, I am glad that I now have you to share my confusion with.”

“What a charming sentiment." Basil grumbled, "I don’t believe you’ve ever been glad of my presence before.”

“Don’t be like that Basil.” The other sighed wearily, “I always adore you presence. When you are preaching it is entertaining, when you are drunk you are excellent conversation, and when you are painting you are quite lovely to look at.”

The artist didn’t reply for a long time after that, but sat turning the cup in his hands.

"I still don't really understand. I’m very thirsty, Harry. And, poor Dorian…But, what happened to you? Have you always been…” Basil's voice was barely more than a whisper and trembled as he spoke.  Lord Henry smiled pityingly at him.

"Nor do I, not entirely." He admitted, staring at the ceiling, “And no, I have not. This is really quite new.”

“But then, what happened?” Basil asked, eyeing the carafe without the slightest bit of subtlety. Lord Henry rose and refilled their glasses, lit two cigarettes and handed one to Basil who accepted it with a nod of thanks. The other almost moaned with inadvertent pleasure after sipping at the blood and bringing the cigarette to his lips, evidently approving of Lord Henry’s chosen flavour combination.

Lord Henry smiled to himself at the expression of contentment and leaned back to drag from his own cigarette.

"You will remember that trip I took East some months back."

"Yes," Said the artist, "It was towards the end of June, was it not? You returned not until late July, and at that looking rather pale and remarked that it had been a singular experience with no small degree of wonder, but refused to report anything further on the matter. We all imagined you had been on the receiving end of some unfortunate scandal.”

"Indeed I had!  You see, not a week had I been in Varna, did I meet an old man with great eyebrows and sharp eyes.  He said he was on his way to London, and upon my stating that as where I heralded from, he insisted that I dine with him and tell him all about the city.  Naturally, he seemed an interesting enough fellow and so I obliged.  After dinner, we sat smoking, and I imagine I must have drifted off, or perhaps fallen into some stupor.  Or, rather, I thought I must have for I had a queer dream in which he and I drank each other's blood."

"Drank each other's blood?!" Basil cried, hand returning to his forehead and eyes shut in despair, "I don't think I want to all know this..."

Lord Henry seemed pleasantly amused at his friend's horror and continued the story.

"It was perhaps barely five hours after dawn that the carriage I was taking to some old site or another was run off the road.  The horses must have become spooked or something, and we tumbled off the side of a cliff.  The next I was aware, I was lying in a ravine surrounded by the corpses of my fellow passengers and with an insatiable desire to drink up their spilled blood.  So, naturally, I yielded to that need.  You look shocked, but recall how greedily you drank the glass of the stuff I gave you earlier.  You understand the lust, I know.  Anyway, several days passed in which I simply allowed myself to follow what seemed appropriate and realised a great many things that you ought be made aware." He diverted from his tale as his voice took on that same air as when he was preaching his philosophies and societal views on his friends, "The morning light is dreadfully bright, and is best avoided.  It become more bearable at noon.  At night, there is a sense of wakefulness and with it some great strength and energy and speed and all manner of strange sensations.  I imagine you have noticed these already."

"Yes, at least, I think so." Rejoined the artist hesitantly.

"It was quite a troublesome matter returning to London.  You know that I returned rather later than intended.  You see, I couldn't seem to board a ship except for at certain times of the day.  I still don't entirely fathom that one out, but you're wise Basil.  You might be able to do so.   Ah, yes, and all manner of holy relics are entirely repulsive."

"This is a nightmare." Basil dropped his head into his hands, "Is it all really true? Can it be true? But everything I’ve seen and heard these past nights…”

“If it is a dream, it is really quite singular.” Lord Henry remarked.

They fell into a silence interrupted solely by the crackling of the fire and the sound of a bell chiming four times in the distance. At length, Lord Henry broke the quiet.

"I am to leave for Selby in some days.”

Basil shot up and jumped from the sofa to grasp his friend’s shoulders, “To Dorian's?! Be careful around him, Harry!  He is…”

“No, don’t tell me.” Lord Henry held up his hand, “Not yet at any rate. I want to wait until it is all over.”

“All over? Whatever do you mean, 'all over'?”

“Don’t tell me you can’t sense it Basil. This is all building to some brilliant conclusion. The first drops have fallen, and now we await the monsoon.”

“I’m glad someone is enjoying this.” The artist grumbled.

“I would not be, had he actually succeeded in murdering you.” Lord Henry said seriously.

“He _did_ actually succeed in murdering me.” Basil rejoined, “Evidently without knowing your hand moved behind the scenes.”

The artist turned and sat on the floor, leaning his back against the arm of Lord Henry’s chair, “I’m surprised he hasn’t learnt by now that your hand is invariably at work behind the scenes.”

They lapsed into silence again. Far off the bell chimed for a quarter past, and Basil spoke again.

“But you must see that there is something wrong with Dorian. Are we not to help him?”

“Help him? What did he do when you attempted to help him?” Lord Henry shook his head, “I don’t wish to know anything of it. I have guessed much already, and am curious to see how this plays out. If I know anything more I shall be tempted to modify events, and you know I can never resist a temptation.”

“I can never decide if you are cruel or just utterly indifferent, Harry.” Basil huffed, “But, as you wish. You would hardly listen to me in any case.”

“Don’t worry Basil. I will be quite safe from him, as are you now.  But you must remain in my rooms until I return and we can find a better arrangement. It would give us both away were you to appear before Dorian now, and I’d rather not have the servants gossiping about the presence of a young man wandering through my house at leisure.  I will send for your sketchbook and supplies tomorrow.  Perhaps some canvas and paint too?”

Basil laughed softly at the strange situation, and offered a small smile up to his friend, ”That would be...wonderful.  Thank you."

———

Basil passed several days alone in Lord Henry’s house while his host was away. The other man had left in his library a good supply of blood in various elegant carafes that made it look nothing more than a deep red wine of some kind, along with the orders that the artist should take whatever he desired from the kitchens, provided the servants did not see him, and could travel freely about the place according to the same rule.

It bothered the artist at first, being exhausted all day and overly awake all night, but he soon grew to find the darkness held its own kind of beauty. The play of shadow was so very different from the day, and the colours held an entire wealth of new hues he had yet to explore. He spent much of his time alone in Lord Henry's library or bedroom painting the various luxurious fabrics throughout, and then moved onto making fast sketches of people passing through the streets below his window, by both in the day and night, and toying with the ways their countenances seemed to change whether he painted them with the hues of the sun or those of the moon and gas lamp.

He was so absorbed in the excitement of the new sensations that he barely noticed the days passing until Lord Henry at last returned. The man kicked off his shoes and threw himself into a chair, where he began to examine the pile of drawings and paintings that Basil had left on a nearby table.

“How was Dorian?” Basil asked, sitting beside him and handing over a small canvas of which is was particularly proud.

“These are excellent, Basil. It seems you have not forgotten how to create beauty after all.” Lord Henry said, looking between two canvases of distinct lighting schemes, “Dorian was in a state of perpetual paranoia, and was really quite uninteresting company. I suppose he might be suffering the guilt of having killed you, but then he seemed more afraid for his own life than burdened by grief or remorse. Although, I wonder that he has not noticed your body missing.”

“He sent someone up to dispose of my corpse the day after the murder.” Basil shrugged, “The poor fellow must have thought I had somehow survived and vowed to cover my escape by some pretence of removing the body with chemicals. I got out through the window and down a drainpipe.”

“On the way back there was some talk of your disappearance.” Lord Henry lit up a cigarette, and Basil wondered that it had taken him so long before doing so.

“Must I remain hidden?”

“Don’t pretend you are not thoroughly relishing the opportunity to hide away and do nothing but paint and draw all day. You detest parties and clubs.”

“But I rather enjoy the opera and theatre, as well as sites beyond the walls of your home.”

“It will be over soon.” Lord Henry said with a hint of certainty that spiked fear in the artist.

"What are you going to do?!" Basil demanded, "Don't smile like that Harry!  What are you going to do?"

Lord Henry became suddenly very serious, an expression Basil had seen on him perhaps five times in all the years they had known each other, and of those, one had been just before he went to talk to Dorian and the other the night he arrived at the window with a stab wound in his neck.

"I am simply going to remind Dorian of what he did to you." Lord Henry replied, and there was something strangely pained in the way he watched the dancing shadows around the fire.

"It was...really my own doing, Harry." Said Basil quietly, "I think I rather drove him to it.  Poor Dorian."

"Poor Dorian?" Lord Henry laughed loudly, "My dear Basil, have you already forgotten that he murdered you?"

"Hardly!  But I do pity him. After all, this is really all my fault.”

"I would have expected you to think I corrupted him." Lord Henry stated, swirling his glass.

"At first I did," Basil answered sadly, "You may have planted the seeds with that terrible influence of yours, but I have seen just how terribly tarnished his soul has become.  Not even you are capable of such horrible things as that.  You love to appear cold and indifferent, but you are not a..."

He faltered and dropped his head to his hands.

"Poor Dorian."

———

The letter arrived with the afternoon post. Lord Henry accepted it in his library, where he sat smoking with Basil. None of his servants had ever met the artist, so during the day the pair had decided it was perfectly acceptable to allow him out of hiding. He'd seem nothing more than another guest.

Lord Henry read the letter over solemnly, then handed it to Basil who might have paled were he not already as pale as one could get.

“It is all over.” Lord Henry said, “Dorian is dead. I believe it is time for you to explain what happened, Basil. This report of his...state...on being found hardly seems the norm.”

"There is little to tell.  In truth, it is all here." Basil returned the letter and sighed heavily, laying his head back to look at the ceiling, "You recall that blasphemous wish he made when I first finished the painting? That day when you first met him?”

“Of course. It was a touch on the dramatic side.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately it seems that the very thing was granted. By some demon or what, I do not know, but in any case it became true. Every year of his life, every sin, became written on the painting, whilst he remained as beautiful and outwardly virtuous as the day it was painted.”

“So that was his trick…” Lord Henry mused, “It is rather romantic, don’t you think?”

“To the point where he ruins his own soul beyond repair courtesy of complete freedom from repercussions.” Basil shook his head, "This is my doing, Harry."

"Come now, Basil." Lord Henry chided, "Dorian made his own mistakes, just as everyone else does. This is not your doing any more than it is mine."

"Perhaps..."

“What now?” Lord Henry asked, lighting a cigarette as if to punctuate the conversation, “Will you return to the society of London and dispel those rumours of your death or unexpected elopement?”

“Oh, Harry." Basil moaned, "I honestly don’t know what I am to do. Can I return after so long a time? What would people ask me? What have people been saying?”

“What does it matter what people have been saying, Basil? You are an artist, and no one understands you artist types.”

“In any case, I don’t think I could bear hearing the gossip about Dorian.”

“Then why don’t we leave altogether? I am really quite done with London.”

“And go where?" Basil laughed, recalling a conversation had long ago back in their Oxford days, "San Fransicsco?”

Lord Henry laughed heartily and took a long drag from his cigarette, that one action sufficing to settle the matter. They left London that very night.


End file.
